


Fire on Fire

by savingusariot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Another stupid fanfiction named after a song title, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hogwarts, LGBTQ, M/M, Magic, Post-War, Romance, School, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Song: Fire On Fire (Sam Smith), Warnings at the start of each chapter I promise, i guess, im getting my gay little hands all over this series just to spite herself, im warning you now this might be a little long, let me take you on an adventure, like pretty fking slow yall, relationship, strap in friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savingusariot/pseuds/savingusariot
Summary: “There’s an old saying I remember reading when I was younger...‘don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.’ It means, stop sacrificing yourself to help people who wouldn’t do the same for you. Especially those of us who had our chance to do the right things and didn’t. I certainly don’t deserve it.”Harry’s eyes glassed over like marbles, distant as they reflected the firelight. He took another drink. “If we all got the things we deserved, the world would be a better place. But I don’t think like that, Draco. I can’t afford to.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written anything longer than a short story in many years, so bear with me while I try to tackle a work of these proportions. I needed a fun project to keep me sane while I’m stuck at home in my final year of university, so I tucked in to a novel-length fanfiction. (As if I didn’t have enough to do already!) It’s deeply imperfect, this silly little piece of my soul, but it’s out here now. This was made for fun, so please don’t be too harsh on it, but I’ll always take advice.  
> I want to make clear that I condemn JKR and her abhorrent statements against the transgender community this past year, which was what originally fuelled me to create a fan work that is as close to the original canon as possible while still including a great many gays and theys. If Hogwarts is your home, this world is yours, and you belong here. Never let anyone tell you that you are not magic.

**Tuesday, August 31, 1999**

“So that’s it, then?” asked Hermione as she flopped down into a chair at their usual table in Wandering Wendelin’s Pub, startling Ron so forcefully that he dropped a chip halfway to his mouth and watched morosely as it landed on the floor with a visceral smack. 

“We’re done,” Harry affirmed with a grimace. “Ron, don’t eat that, you’ll be sick. _I’ll_ be sick if I have to watch you eat that.” 

Ron froze halfway to picking up his chip off the floor and straightened up before Hermione had a chance to gawk at him in horror. “Wasn’t gonna,” he mumbled unconvincingly. “I was just going to bin it. But yeah, we’re off for the term. Robards released us this morning.” 

Hermione looked leagues happier than either of the boys put together, and her smile only faltered when she glanced between the two of them and saw that they were not nearly as excited as she was. “Well, you should be pleased, shouldn’t you?” she asked, in the sort of lofty voice that was only a hair away from agitation. “I’d give anything to have a break from work right now, and here you are complaining. Honestly!” Her fluffy hair bounced around her head as she slumped back in her seat, arms folding across her chest. 

“‘s not me!” Ron piped up defensively, which prompted Harry to shoot him a severe look. Ron had agreed with him that morning, out of Hermione’s presence. How quickly he forgot. “Harry’s just not one to leave a job unfinished. You know what he’s like.” 

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said tersely, met with only an apologetic shrug. 

Hermione sighed. “You’ve got a great job opportunity. You’ll be back at the school, you’ll get to complete the rest of your training, you’ll get to spend some more time with your brother—“ here, she elbowed Ron lightly, and his face split into a toothy grin. “—and the rest of the department will finish rounding up the final missing Death Eaters. You have absolutely no reason to complain.” As Harry slumped in his chair, giving this information its due consideration, Hermione rolled up the sleeve of her blazer and reached across the table to filch one of Ron’s chips. When Harry had tried it earlier, he’d nearly had his arm bitten off, but Hermione received only a quiet grunt in retaliation. 

“I’d just feel a lot better if we’d gotten them all by now,” Harry heaved with a sigh, carding his fingers through his hair. By contrast to Hermione’s carefully styled curls and sharp business attire, he would venture that he and Ron looked as though they hadn’t slept in a week, hair ruffled and eyes dark, dressed still like they were preparing to trek across the highlands in search of Horcruxes. But of course, that was all over now. The only remaining trace of Voldemort lay in his followers, a handful of whom were still scattered to the wind despite Harry and Ron’s best efforts.

“Robards promised us that the rest would be handled,” Ron reminded them all unnecessarily. “Besides, they’re all too thick on their own to try anything. Bet Greyback’s sleeping in a cave somewhere, the fucking loon, so we’re just as like to never hear from him again.” 

“I’m sure that’ll help Bill sleep better at night,” Harry muttered darkly. “Remus can rest easy too.” 

Hermione actually rolled her eyes at this, to Harry’s great surprise. “Oh, enough! You’re just saying this because you feel guilty.” 

“Of course I do!” Harry cried. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

“They’re not your _responsibility,_ Harry,” Hermione insisted, slapping her palm on the table to punctuate her point. “I can’t believe we’re still having this conversation. You couldn’t fight a war on your own, and you can’t clean up from one on your own either. Let people help!” 

“Look, I hate Robards as much as the next guy who works for him,” Ron added uneasily. “But he knows what he’s doing, and so does Kingsley. You’ve gotta trust the system.” 

“Because it’s always worked so well in the past?” Harry said. He didn’t sound entirely convinced, but there was a resignation starting to colour his tone that said Ron and Hermione were wearing him down.

“Can’t we just celebrate?” Hermione implored, reaching across the table with a reassuring hand. After a moment’s consideration, Harry straightened up in his chair and took it, accepting it without complaint when she gently squeezed his fingers. Ron sighed dramatically and threw his hand on the pile as well, inciting Hermione to a quiet giggle. 

“Sod it,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “To going back to school.” 

Hermione beamed; this, to her, was certainly something worth celebrating. “To going back to school!” 

Harry heaved a fond sigh, casting a look around at his two best friends. Still by his side, after all these years. “To trusting the system,” he muttered grudgingly, and watched Hermione’s mouth twist into an encouraging smile.

* * *

When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place that evening, it was to find a crisp parchment envelope sitting in the center of the faded old dining table, staring up at him with shining emerald ink that had scarcely had time to dry. No doubt Kreacher had left it out for him. Harry crossed to the table, dusting a bit of glittering Floo Powder off his jacket sleeves along the way, and took up the envelope with delicate fingers. It was almost too perfect to open, its penned address neat and uniform, its stamped wax seal in a perfectly formed circle, a red so startling against the cream of the paper that it looked like a globule of blood had been spattered down onto its center, aside from the elegant lines of the school crest in its centre. Harry had recognised the handwriting immediately upon inspection, but it was still with a feeling of wonderment that he opened the letter and unfolded the single sheet contained within, allowing his eyes to travel along the paper. 

_Dear Mr. Potter,  
I am writing to inform you that accommodations have been provided for you within the school grounds as per request. You will find your guest dormitory in the east wing of the fifth floor, across from the statue of Boris the Bewildered. You will find the hidden door responds to the revelio charm. Two rooms have been prepared, should Mr. Weasley request his own. Yourself and Mr. Weasley are expected to be present on the evening of Wednesday, September the first, to attend the annual welcome feast and be introduced alongside the faculty to the year’s new students. Should you have any questions, do not hesitate to send an owl or visit in person. My office door is always open.  
M. G. McGonagall,  
Headmistress  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

As soon as Harry had finished reading, he dropped the letter back to the table. “Kreacher!” He shouted, stepping through the kitchen doorway and craning his neck to call up the stairs. A wrinkled, bat-eared head appeared between two slats of the stair railing several stories above, squinting down at Harry along a hooked nose. 

“Yes, master?” The elf croaked softly, the reverberations of the stairwell only serving to compound the natural warble of his voice. The locket around his neck, much too large for someone of his size, flickered in the low candlelight in the stairway’s sconces. 

“I’m heading out again,” he called. “Don’t wait for me to return. I may not be back.” 

“Certainly, master,” Kreacher rasped, sweeping into such a low bow that the chain around his neck nearly slipped off. Harry never knew how to respond to this kind of treatment, so he opted, with a flood of utter embarrassment, to depart with a casual little wave that made Kreacher’s eyes squint up in confusion. 

Harry couldn’t Apparate across the country, much to his own chagrin, so he was left with no choice but to Floo to the headmistress’s office. The idea of arriving unannounced to disturb her on the evening before the start of term terrified him, but not quite as much as the thought of putting off the visit until later in the evening, when she was sure to be exceptionally cross with him for interrupting her work. Steeling his nerves against the freezing rush of dread that swept through him, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder from the jar above the mantle and stepped through the grate, making sure to clearly enunciate every syllable of _‘Hogwarts’_ as he stepped into the swirling green flames. 

Minerva McGonagall was sitting at her desk when Harry turned up, spluttering and coughing from a sharp inhale of smoke that had coated the back of his throat with a layer of smog. He gained his footing just in time to realise that he had tracked ash onto her carpet in the midst of his clumsy arrival, and glanced up sheepishly to be met with a reproving glare that was not at all softened by the barrier of her crescent gold-rimmed spectacles. 

“Do come in,” she said belatedly, raising one severe eyebrow over the rim of her glasses. 

Harry stood awkwardly on the ovular rug beside the fire, now streaked with soot from the imprint of his trainers. McGonagall glanced back at her paperwork then again at Harry, sighed almost inaudibly, and lifted the silt from the rug with a flick of her wand. 

“May I help you with something?” she continued, a dry smile playing on her thin mouth. Something about the lilt of her Scottish brogue was both sedate and terror-inducing at once. Harry realised with a rush of embarrassment that she was sorting through a large sheaf of parchment papers, sending them to different piles about her desk with languid flicks of her wand. There was a tin of biscuits on the corner of the desk as well; as Harry dithered, her expression softened into something reminiscent and fond, and she indicated it with a nod. Harry shuffled over, careful not to track any ash across the polished wood floor, and took a biscuit from the tin as McGonagall’s eyes turned back to her work.

“I am a wee bit busy this evening, unfortunately, with the start of term tomorrow,” she said, in a tone that was meant to be apologetic but only came across as brusque. Harry hastened to finish chewing his bite of biscuit — he had been hoping for chocolate, but it turned out to be filled, disappointingly, with only raisins and walnuts. 

“I was just thinking that before tomorrow, I might have a chance to, er...” Harry trailed off, glancing around him as though the word that had eluded him was resting somewhere among the crevices of the office. 

“Reacquaint yourself with the grounds?” she offered. Harry nodded. “By all means, Potter, have the run of the place.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said apologetically, stepping in the direction of the door. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll get out of your way.”

“I’m afraid that may be best at present. You’ve caught me at a singularly unfortunate time.” The sound of shuffling papers continued, and Harry took that as an end to their conversation, and began picking his way across the office to the enormous oak door hunched in the far wall. 

“Oh, and Potter?” 

Harry turned.

“All teachers’ offices are connected to the Floo network, yourself and Mister Weasley’s are no exception,” she said, continuing to rifle through a large stack of hovering papers with a flick of her wand. “Your comings and goings are no business of mine. As I’m sure you are aware, you are a grown adult and I am not your keeper.” She pressed her lips tightly together so they melted into a thin, flat line. “As I said, you are always welcome, but perhaps in future you could consider announcing yourself first.” 

“Er—right,” Harry said quickly. “Sorry.” 

Her smile turned fond as he hastened out the door. “It’s nice to see you again, Potter.” 

“You too, Professor.” 

Harry ducked from the room, slipping into the hall and shutting the door as quickly as he could. As soon as it swung shut behind him and he was alone on the landing, he allowed himself a full-bodied shudder. A truly terrible decision on his part, to think that McGonagall would be any less intimidating to him now. He hoped it had been worth it for the chance to wander the castle uninterrupted.

It was eerie to wander the halls of the school in its empty state, each footfall reverberating around the stone chambers as though he were a dragon stepping with enormous clawed feet. On more than one occasion he turned down a hallway to see a house elf polishing a suit of armour or straightening a portrait frame, and sent the poor creature running with a violent gasp of shock and the resounding slap of large, bare feet on the flagstones. 

The classrooms were quiet. Dust motes drifted across the watery patches of early evening light seeping through the windows. The courtyards were empty and immaculate, every shrub and blade of grass perfectly arranged and pruned, waiting for the onslaught of students to arrive and trample it all back down again under the torrent of their loafers. Many of the portraits in the grand staircase were empty as their subjects gathered together in concentrated droves for parties, celebrating their last nights of misbehaviour before the new term began. When Harry passed the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, the Fat Lady was nowhere to be seen.

He at last made his way back to the fifth floor hallway. Four doors down, past the section where the twins had unleashed a pervasive swamp into the hall in their sixth year, causing Filch to begin ferrying students back and forth to class. Somewhere across from the statute of Boris the Bewildered, that crotchety old wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he slowed his gait. Opposite the carving was a large swath of open wall, which was disrupted only by the decorative raised channels that ran from the floor to the ribbed ceiling. Feeling like a real knob, he glanced around himself to make sure he was alone, then tapped the tip of his outstretched wand to the blank section of wall. 

_“Revelio.”_

Harry leapt back several feet as the wall began to shift without warning. A rectangular shape with an ovoid top had begun to sink into the blank stone wall, wood grain forming along its slats as iron wrought crossbars and hinges began to appear in relief on its surface. The door’s handle appeared last, along with a lock that had the loop of an iron key protruding from its front. Harry gripped the handle with one hand and the key ring in the other, fighting to quell his excitement as he turned the key in the lock and felt the bolt give way. Yet another secret of the castle’s that he had managed to discover. Ron would be peeved that he hadn’t come along. 

However exciting the finding of the door had been, it was nothing compared to Harry’s reaction to the room beyond. The chamber was expansive and comfortably furnished in varying shades of gold and crimson — no doubt a touch of McGonagall’s, who like him, had a considerable amount of house pride. The four-poster bed on the far wall was flanked by turret windows and trapped in velvet curtains, and was at least twice the size of the standard bunks in the dormitories. There was an oak desk all his own on the left wall, and on the right, an enormous hearth, within which a fire had begun burning merrily the moment his feet crossed the threshold. The fireplace had before it a large red couch and rug to match those of the Gryffindor common room, and the sight made his heart constrict. It really was just like being home. 

This thought lit a fire in his chest that provided him some amount of comfort. For the rest of the term, he would never be forced to sleep in the dingy, dark halls of Grimmauld place, where he often awoke to the sensation of the lingering shadows and peeling wallpaper rising over him in a consuming wave, threatening to swallow him whole. The entire house was suffocating and crawling with ghosts — not the kind Hogwarts had, but the sort that often left Harry feeling as though someone was watching him as he moved about the rooms, lingering just out of his line of sight. The kind where he would, on occasion, step into a room and mistake a shadowed chair or a coat on a rack for the figure of his godfather. Not dead at all, just busy about the house, apologising profusely for having been gone. Standing at the top of the stairs, waiting to greet him. 

Harry realised that there were tears pricking in the wells of his eyes, and ran his fingers over his face to dispel them. This was not that. He was free from that place with all its stale air and ancient memories. The whole place creaked with the depth of its rot. Harry had a suspicion that he would sleep better here, safe and unburdened, than he had in many years. The thought was enough to make him want to crash face-first into the bed right now and sleep straight through ‘til the next afternoon. 

There was a bowl of fruit on the desk, all red apples, to match the decor. Harry wandered over to them and took one up, methodically weighing it between his hands to make sure it was not made out of wax. The sort of decoration Aunt Petunia used to like, back when he had to be apprised of such things. The apple was real; he collapsed bonelessly onto the couch and sunk his teeth into it, enjoying the satisfying crunch to the bite. He closed his eyes and sunk back into the cushions to listen. Nothing but the sound of his own chewing and the crackling of the fireplace reached his ears, and it was a delight. 

At some point that evening, he had to return to Grimmauld Place via the Floo to retrieve his belongings and swipe some more substantial food from the cupboards, carefully treading around to not attract the attention of Kreacher, who didn’t enjoy speaking to him anyway. He hardly felt like he breathed again until he reemerged in the Hogwarts guest room, dragging a packed trunk and polishing off the last of a hastily constructed sandwich. There was a bottle of firewhisky somewhere in the base of his trunk that he intended to crack open before turning in — another excellent benefit of returning as a teaching assistant. McGonagall wouldn’t fault him for it, at any rate; he was fairly certain he had caught a bottle of the same stuff in the cabinet behind her desk. 

Harry was too comfortable in his new corner of the castle to stay awake long. The sun had descended into the forest hours ago and the stars were blinking through his windows, coaxing him to sleep. After spending some time flipping through Countering Counter-Curses, a book Ron’s brother Bill had lent him over the summer, he downed the dregs of his drink and prepared himself for bed. Between the warm, muted buzz of the alcohol and the comforting sensation of returning home after a long journey, Harry fell asleep within minutes, and did not wake until the next afternoon.

* * *

Ron arrived the next day and spent most of the afternoon settling into his room, the mirror image of Harry’s and not much farther along the hall. While he shuffled his belongings through the Floo, Harry ascended the Astronomy Tower and arranged his forearms against the railing to look out over the distant pointed roofs of Hogsmeade Village. The train arrived just as darkness was beginning to gather again, a distant streak of red that slithered into the station and crouched between the rooftops, belching steam. Students began appearing from the carriages in droves and swarmed in packs toward the waiting coaches at the end of the road like a swarm of ants emerging from a mound. 

Harry wondered, as he stood at his perch on the highest spire, if he was really cut out for this. Saving the world had been predestined, something he never had time or inclination to question. He was told it was a job only he could do, so he did it, dutifully. But was he truly the best man for this job? Surely real-world experience didn’t translate seamlessly to the classroom. What if he managed to ruin the next generation of Hogwarts students? If they all failed their OWLs, he would be the obvious one to blame. The worries ricocheted about inside his head like bludgers until he felt a palpable ache behind his temples, and groaning turned away from the balustrade. 

The students would be arriving at the castle at any moment now, and filing into the Great Hall for their house sorting and arrival feast. Harry skipped down the stairs as quickly as his legs would allow him, and upon rounding the corner at the bottom, nearly crashed into a pair of familiar figures in the next hallway. 

“Blimey, Harry! We were just looking for you!” 

The voice of Neville Longbottom had barely registered with him before Harry was pulled into a bone-crushing hug and squeezed within an inch of his life, struggling to gasp in air as he thumped Neville on the back, all under the amused gaze of Ron, who Harry guessed was grinning hugely at his shoulder. When Neville finally set him down, Harry at last got a moment to look at him — it had only been a few months since Neville had left his volunteer position at the Ministry, but even since then he appeared to have grown a few inches taller and infinitely more confident. Not a single one of his classmates would have guessed how well he grew into his gawkish height, pigeon-toed feet and buck teeth. All that remained of the bumbling, nerdy kid were his enormous ears and his lopsided smile, which crinkled up his round face until his eyes all but disappeared into his cheeks. Harry had missed him, and as soon as he had caught his breath, told him as much. 

“You’re just saying that,” Neville said, stubbing the toe of one shoe into the floor and looking shy. A blotchy red blush crept up his neck, flaming his already prominent ears. “But I missed you lot, too. Hermione writes to me sometimes, but I never hear from you and Ron. Figured you were probably too busy catching Death Eaters to send me any letters.”

“Well, I wasn’t worried about you, mate,” Ron lied quickly. “I knew you’d be busy doing brilliant stuff out here, didn’t want to bother you was all.” 

“Plus Ron can’t spell for anything,” Harry added, earning himself a sharp jab to the gut from Ron’s elbow. 

Neville shook his head fondly, glancing between the two of them with a half-grin still plastered across his face. “We should start heading down soon, we can watch the sorting from the back of the hall.”

A large gaggle of young students awaited them when they approached the entrance hall; judging from the raucous din of chatter seeping from under the Great Hall’s closed doors, the rest of the school was already inside awaiting the arrival of the first-year students for the sorting. Harry, Ron and Neville slipped down the final flight of stairs and waited against the back wall for the students to be escorted in. One child, wild-haired and teary-eyed, was whispering urgently to a friend who was clearly not invested in the conversation. 

“But what if I’m put in Slytherin?” the child moaned, tugging insistently at the sleeve of his friend’s robe. She continued to ignore him, gazing instead at the carved stone sconces on either side of the entryway. 

“Mum already thinks I get in trouble too much. She’d hate me!” the boy continued in abject horror. 

Harry had been leaning with one foot propped against the wall behind them — when he lowered it to the ground with a sound of scuffing, the children whirled around in a panic. When they realised who was listening in on their conversation, the girl clapped a small hand over her open mouth to smother a gasp, while the boy simply gawked, his eyes as wide as saucers. 

Harry smiled wryly down at the first-years before fixing a look on the young boy. “Nothing wrong with Slytherin,” he said. The child was too stunned to reply, so Harry continued, “I’ve known some excellent Slytherins. I was nearly in Slytherin myself.” 

“You weren’t,” the girl said, disbelieving. “You couldn’t be in Slytherin.” 

“Couldn’t I?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think I’d have been any good?” 

The boy smacked his friend on the arm without breaking eye contact with Harry. “She didn’t mean it like that, sir. We’re sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. And definitely don’t call me sir.” Harry put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Be happy that you’re at Hogwarts, whatever house you’re in.”

The students nodded vigorously, just as the doors to the hall began to swing open with a great sigh from their enormous hinges. The assembled students began to file into the hall, and Harry waved the pair along until he and his friends were once again alone in the entryway. 

“Load of tripe, of course,” Ron grumbled, kicking off the wall as well and peering through the door alongside Harry and Neville. “Never met a Slytherin I liked in six bloody years.” 

“Don’t say that,” Harry chided. “You did just hear me say I was nearly a Slytherin, right?” 

“Yeah, but you weren’t, were you?” Ron countered. “Besides, you have more right than anyone else to hate them all.” 

“They’re children,” said Harry flatly, feeling a touch of annoyance rise in the back of his throat. He folded his arms, pointedly looking away from Ron, into the hall. “What did you want me to tell them?”

“I’m not trying to start an argument here,” muttered Ron quickly, his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “I just mean, and I’ve told you this before, but, I think you’re too forgiving.”

“We fought a war so they wouldn’t have to be divided,” Harry reminded lowly, trying not to sound overly irritated. “It’s not your house that makes you a bad person, it’s your choices. I’m not going to treat an entire group of students like disappointments because of the colour of their robes. We’ve got to be better than that.” He turned to Ron now, waiting until their eyes met before continuing. “We can teach better than that.” 

Ron searched his face for a charged moment, looking wary, then finally nodded. 

Neville stepped within earshot now, tapping them both on the shoulders gently. “Oi,” he whispered. “We can stand in the doorway to watch, McGonagall’s going to do announcements soon.” 

The sorting finished quickly with no stalls to speak of. The boy Harry had been speaking to went to Ravenclaw, though his friend was sorted into Slytherin. Harry hoped silently that they would still be friends afterward, that his words had made some effect on their opinions. 

McGonagall commanded the presence on the room when she stepped up to the podium. The gilded wings of the owl figurehead snapped open with a sound like a blade on a whetstone, which echoed loudly enough through the silent chamber to sound deafening. 

“I welcome you all to another year at Hogwarts,” she began grandly, hands outstretched to mimic the wings of the owl, to a hushed ripple of awe and delight from the assembled students. 

“After she mentions us, we can go,” Neville whispered in their ears. Harry, leaning against the doorjamb, nodded silent assent. 

“We have some changes to staff this year. Firstly, the Defence Against the Dark Arts position...” 

“Look at him, slick git,” Ron muttered, jerking his head at the high table. “Bet he thinks he’s gonna be the cool professor this year.”

“He _is_ going to be the cool professor this year,” Harry grumbled back. “Rotten luck for us, but there you have it.” 

“I only met him once,” Neville breathed, looking on in amazement. “Promise you’ll introduce me properly later on, yeah?” 

“He’s not the bleeding Minister of Magic, he’s my stupid brother!” Ron moaned a little too loudly, causing several of the students at the nearest seats to glance around and gape in amazement at the sight of the trio in the doorway. Harry desperately held a finger to his lips in panic just as he heard McGonagall begin to mention them. 

“...several of our former students will also be assisting your professors throughout the term as part of their career training. These are Neville Longbottom, Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter.” 

The applause was thunderous for Neville alone, but by the time McGonagall got to Harry’s name the din of chatter within the hall was deafening, students beginning to rise out of their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at the three figures stood in the entryway. McGonagall abided the unrest for only a moment before the sound of a magically amplified clap jolted every eye in the room back to the forward dais. 

“Come on,” Neville’s voice hissed, suddenly very close to Harry’s ear. A hand simultaneously gripped the back of his arm, tugging him insistently away from the door. “There’s food in the staff room as well, and if we stay here we’ll get mobbed the second McGonagall’s done talking.” 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice; Neville dragged both him and Ron away from the entrance hall and began ascending the stairs two at a time on his gawky legs, Harry and Ron jogging to keep up until they arrived at the second floor staff room, where a smaller yet equally elaborate feast had been laid out on the long central table, alongside several decanters of pumpkin juice and raspberry wine. It was only when he set his eyes upon the food — an overwhelming assortment of roast meats and cooked vegetables, heaps of mashed potatoes, braised sausage and lamb, mince pies and pasties, gelatins and treacle tarts —that Harry realised he had not remembered to eat anything all day, and despite lying in until nearly midday, he was hungry enough to eat everything on that table. Ron seemed to second these thoughts without a single word even passing between them — they both dove for the stack of gold dinner plates with a fervour and began towering them with food from every dish, Neville following after them in an awed sort of bemusement. 

Harry didn’t return back to his room until much later, when he, Ron and Neville had been certain all the students had been escorted back to their dormitories and they were at no risk of being accosted. Harry was so full with roasted potatoes and raspberry wine that he nearly didn’t notice the letter that had been slipped beneath the slat of his door, and wouldn’t have, had it not crunched beneath his shoe when he stepped on it. Wincing, he bent to pick it up, smoothing out the crease he had stamped into its centre, and pulled open the green twine bow that was holding it together. He creased the centre fold open with his thumb and index finger as he read. 

_Harry —  
I hope this gets to you. I had no idea where they’ve got you holed up in this place, so I had to ask one of the house elves to deliver it. If you don’t receive it, I suppose I’ll know tomorrow. I’ve got a morning class of sixth-years first thing, but why don’t you and Ron come down to my office before lunch to talk about lesson plans? Minerva’s got you two working with the third and fourth years. She reckoned you’d had enough to deal with without also having to manage a group of eleven or twelve year olds, and I’m pretty sure she’d be right. She usually is. Anyway, see you both tomorrow.  
— B_

Harry folded the note back up and tossed it onto his desk, too stupefied by the dim warmth of the candlelight and the torpor of heavy food to think about much aside from collapsing back into the comfort of his newfound four-poster bed. He stifled a yawn even as the tranquillising thought surfaced that he wouldn’t have to be awake until gone ten in the morning, when he would need to rouse Ron from next door to go visit the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom if they wanted to get their meeting in before lunchtime. This was, in some ways, far superior to Auror field work. At least the food was better, and the hours were kinder. Harry contented himself with these sorts of hazy thoughts, sluggish from the feast and the wine, as he manage to ready himself to sleep and collapse into the warm cocoon of crimson blankets upon his bed.

* * *

The door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was open when Harry and Ron arrived the next morning, and it was mercifully empty — they had spent the whole walk down dodging huddles of staring and whispering students, with Harry on multiple occasions having to skirt around reaching hands that grabbed at his clothes or tried to tap him on the shoulder. Just moving about the castle was proving to be a challenge with the clusters of wide-eyed first and second years gawking about the hallways with their jaws unhinged to the floor. The two had to stop to take a breather once inside the safety of the classroom; they had jogged most of the way there to avoid recognition and stay ahead of the wave of chatter that seemed to follow in their wake wherever they went. Harry was still trying to coax his hair into a more acceptable shape when the sound of a latch unbolting ricocheted around the empty room, and a figure emerged from the raised office doorway to survey them from the upper landing. 

The man who emerged was not much older than Ron or Harry, dressed in a waxed olive jacket over a worn leather vest and a shirt cut just low enough to reveal a cord necklace hanging just past his collarbone, displaying a patina-covered coin about the size of a galleon. His hair was shorter than Harry had seen it last, not quite long enough to throw over his shoulder but still pulled back into a ponytail with some fringe falling into his face. Its brilliant ginger was still not nearly enough to distract from his most striking feature — a set of four parallel gashes running down the right side of his face, as healed now as they would ever be but still gruesome to first lay eyes on. Even Harry, who had the benefit of previous encounters, had to consciously hold back a wince at the sight of the ridged channels of flesh, imperfectly drawn back together by pearly scar tissue. Ron was the first to cut across the room and bound up the stairs to pull his brother into a fierce hug, as though it had been years instead of mere weeks since they had seen each other last. They did a lot more of this these days, the Weasley family, ever since the end of the war. Harry, watching them, suddenly felt as though his lungs were lined with needles, and every inhale was like being stabbed, repeatedly, through the ribs. 

“Bill,” Harry said at last, when he and Ron had separated. “It’s great to see you again. How’s Fleur?” 

Bill beamed at him, his face showing a ghost of its former handsomeness as a dimple appeared in his unscarred cheek. “Great. Back to work, not that anyone’s surprised. She insisted I take the job offer here because it’s safer than Gringotts, and what does she do? Goes right back to working there as soon as I’m gone.” Bill’s smile was infectious, and soon Harry was grinning, too, and then they were all piling into the office and flopping down on overstuffed chairs while Bill answered all of Harry’s questions about the book he had leant him, and Ron periodically swiped hard candies out of a tin on Bill’s desk, earning himself a handful of pointed glares but no further chastisement from his oldest brother. At last, when they had caught up and spent some time each complaining about their misfortunes and laughings at the others’, Bill began sifting around in the enormous oak desk and finally produced a stack of parchment for each of them and handed them across. Harry flipped through the pages, bound at the edge by a sticking charm, and discovered that they were lesson plans — pre-written outlines, clearly copied down by an automatic quill, judging from the uniformity of the stroke, that had been drawn up to help them teach classes unsupervised. Harry glanced over at Ron and they locked eyes, passing between them an expression that predicted a grim year of carefully sanctioned teaching, rather than the the sort of exciting and spontaneous lessons they had hoped to teach. 

“Doubt they gave Remus these,” Ron muttered darkly, casting a look at Bill. “It’s all so...boring.” 

“I’m sure that’s true. But you know what? Remus was a model student, Order member, and mature adult, whereas the two of you...” Bill trailed off, raising his eyebrows challengingly at Ron. “Crashed a stolen Anglia into the Whomping Willow?” 

“That was seven years ago,” Ron complained, rolling his eyes. “Let it _go.”_

“Your own fault for having older brothers. Now, I’ve got another class in half an hour,” Bill said, shooting Ron a capricious grin. “So both of you shift so I can go nick a sandwich or something.” 

Ron and Harry kicked off their chairs and trooped down the steps, Bill following them a pace behind. Bill peeled off when they passed the staff room in search of food, but Harry grabbed Ron by the arm and dragged him along the corridor to audible protest. 

“I hate to say it, but it’s the first full day of term, which means-” 

Ron groaned. “We’re adults, and so is he. Can’t we just tell him he can’t cook and never have to meet him for lunch again?” 

“Sure,” Harry said, “you be my guest.” 

Ron scuffed his trainers and mumbled something darkly under his breath, following Harry out of the castle at a trudge. 

Hagrid answered the door with a booming laugh and a crushing hug that enveloped the both of them easily and squeezed all the air out of their lungs. By the time Harry’s feet hit the floor again he was winded and gasping to suck in air through a windpipe that felt crushed to the capacity of a straw. All the while, Fang the boarhound danced around their ankles, barking in low timbre and startling a flock of starlings from a nearby tree. Hagrid ushered them inside with hands the size of frying pans and closed the door behind them, humming merrily as he went to stoke the hearth where a copper kettle was beginning to whistle. Fang walked circles around Harry’s ankles as he and Ron settled into their usual spots on the window seat, then with an enormous sigh flopped down onto the floorboard and began licking at the toes of Harry’s shoes. 

“Glad teh see ya,” Hagrid said in a watery voice. When he turned, holding a set of mismatching teacups in his enormous hands, his black eyes were glittering with tears. “Yeh’ll never believe wha’s happened.” 

“We’ve seen a lot,” Ron reasoned with a grim sort of smile. “Give us a go.” 

Hagrid began to pass out mugs and filters, followed with a thud by a large tin of ground leaves and spices that had a pungent and not altogether appetising aroma. 

“Me own blend,” Hagrid said, sounding a little cheerier, as he shuffled off to grab the kettle. “Been growing it in me garden out back. Mind ya, it’s a bit stronger that wha’ you two are probably used to. Bloke my size needs a bit more kick to wake hisself up in the mornin’.” 

Harry and Ron exchanged a grim look when Hagrid’s back was turned. It seemed not even the tea was safe anymore. 

The rock cakes and stoat sarnies were unavoidable, as they always were at their first visit of the year. They had both learned by now to buy their coats with large pockets so as to hide more food, but Fang proved equally useful with his insatiable ability to consume anything [remotely] edible. After feeding the dog his second sandwich, Harry began to worry that he might be sick later on and give away the entire operation. Much to Fang’s disappointment, he turned to tucking his rock cakes into the large pockets of his jacket instead. 

“So what’s all this about, then, Hagrid?” Ron finally dared to ask. “You looked upset when we got here.” 

Hagrid sighed, slumping down into his chair until the wood creaked a low, keening protest. “It’s the thestrals,” he began miserably. Fang shuffled over and rested his head on Hagrid’s knee, giving a quiet burp that made Harry wince across the table. Hagrid simply stroked the dog’s head, unaware of Harry’s worry or the froth of congealed drool that was now dripping onto his trousers. 

“One ‘a ‘em...” he hiccoughed, seeming to choke down a sob. “One ‘a ‘em got attacked last night after the students got in. I went to feed ‘em after pullin’ the carriages, you know, they always do such a good job...” he reached into his pocket and pulled out an enormous, ratty handkerchief, which he blew his nose on loudly. “And they’re all spooked, like summat’s been hangin’ about and messin’ wit ‘em. So Fang and I have a look, ‘a course, and down in the gully by their usual spot, we found it...all scratched up and bleedin’ like. Just a wee critter. Didn’t even have its hair grown in, bless the poor thing. An’ it...it...” Hagrid was full-body wailing now, heaving huge, wretched sobs into his handkerchief, which looked beleaguered under all the strain. “It died after we found it. Monstrous! Horrible, heartless thing to do, attackin’ a defenceless creature like tha’.” 

Ron got to his feet wordlessly and circled around Hagrid to throw his arms as far as he could reach around his neck. Hagrid’s sobs, which had begun to melt into anger, returned full tilt, and Harry took advantage of the moment to think. What would possibly kill a thestral? Surely something so skeletal wouldn’t provide a food source for another creature. Besides, few would ever venture close enough to the school to hunt their creatures. 

“It couldn’t have just fallen, could it?” He checked, frowning. 

Hagrid’s eyes were dark, his cheeks blotchy when he lifted his face out of his handkerchief. “Fallin’ don’t shred the flesh off yer bones,” he said. Harry shuddered. 

“Probably just a wolf or something,” Ron reasoned, giving Hagrid a strong clap on the shoulder. “We can go put up some protective enchantments if you’d like, though. Make sure nothing else gets to them. I’m really sorry, Hagrid.” 

Hagrid began to mop at his streaming eyes. “Nah, you don’t gotta do that,” he warbled. “The Headmistress’s already been down to fix things up, an’ there ain’t no wizard alive I trust more’n Professor McGonagall.” 

“Then how can we help?” Ron urged. 

Hagrid shook his head, his watery eyes turning happy. “Havin’ ya here is enough. Go on then, have another rock cake. I’ve never known yeh to have less than three.” 

“Er—been trying to cut back,” Harry lied quickly, even as Fang began to press his nose into Harry’s coat pocket with interest. 

“Yer young, it won’ kill ya,” Hagrid managed with a chuckle. 

Ron slipped back into his seat beside Harry and leaned over to whisper, “wanna bet?”

* * *

Later that night, after flipping through several pages of droll lesson outlines and nearly falling asleep, Harry had turned back to his curse-breaking book to finish the final chapter. The margins were filled with Bill’s thin, sloping handwriting all the way up to the last page, and when Harry finally closed the back cover he realised that his own scroll of notes contained just as much of the information that Bill had written down as the passages from the book. He checked his watch, a gift from Ron several years earlier — the golden snitch face had tiny spectral wings that unfurled and beat softly against his wrist on the hour, though they were silent now as it was only quarter to nine. His legs were stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, and the students would be back in their dormitories by now, so really — if he thought about it — now was the perfect time to return that book. He hauled himself quickly off the couch, reduced the fire to embers with a flick of his wand, and jammed his trainers on as he went for the door. 

The halls were silent as predicted on the walk to the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor. Only a handful of prefects were patrolling or escorting students back to their common rooms, punctuated by the occasional silvery whisper of a passing ghost in the distance. It was a strange sensation, walking about the castle without his invisibility cloak tripping up his feet. He would not soon miss the annoyance of holding the cloak up in one hand and the Marauder’s Map in the other, squinting down at it without the use of his wand light and trying not to let his glasses slide off his nose, where they might loudly shatter on the floor. As it was, being a teaching assistant had its perks. 

The door to the classroom was open when Harry knocked, the door swinging open with a metallic groan on its hinges that made him wince. “Bill?” He called softly; no one answered. He glanced around. The office door was closed, but light was flickering out from under the threshold, and Harry was sure he could hear someone speaking in the room beyond. He should have left right then, he knew it, but the instinct to interfere was still there. Cautiously, he began creeping across the ancient slats of flooring and ascended the stone steps to the office. 

Muffled voices were carrying from under the door. Harry paused at the top of the steps, breath sticking in his throat, and strained to make out what was being said in the ensuing silence. The first speaker was undoubtedly Bill, but he was followed by another, agitated, achingly familiar voice...

Harry’s blood ran cold as the clipped, icy voice from his childhood reached his ears, his fingers tightening on the grip of his wand. 

What could Draco Malfoy possibly be doing here?

Harry hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, and their last meeting was not one either of them would soon forget. Harry, swearing softly to himself under his breath, nervously tapping his wand against the side of his leg, had sat in silent discomfort until it was his turn to speak. Hermione had gone with him, sat beside him, held his hand more for her benefit than his own, whispered encouragement that did nothing to deaden the feeling of solid lead filling his chest cavity. He had spent the preceding weeks to that day unable to shake the feeling that he was doing something that even he should never have considered, above and beyond the call of duty. He had sway with the Ministry following the war — with everyone, really, somehow seeming even more famous than he had been in the years before Voldemort’s return, when everyone who met him had rumbled his name back to him in an awed wheeze and addressed all their questions to the mark on his forehead rather than his eyes. It had come down to him what happened to them, and he had made the decision to let them walk free, a decision that had haunted him for months after, wondering each night whether he would awaken the next morning to a headline in the paper that was a direct result of his decision. But that morning never came, and he had gradually forgotten about the Malfoy family, no longer worrying about what they were up to behind closed doors. That was, until now, when he heard the unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy seeping through the crack beneath the doorway and felt every synapse in his body fire a sudden, urgent bolt of panic and rage that kept him frozen on the top step until he heard the voices quiet down, footsteps cross the room, and silence descend once more over the classroom. Harry waited another moment on the landing to give himself plausible deniability, then quietly shifted his way to the threshold and knocked twice on the door. 

“It’s open,” Bill’s muffled voice replied. 

Harry pushed the door open slowly, on edge about what might greet him on the other side, but was greeted with an empty room. Only Bill sat there, slouched in the chair behind his desk, looking over a sheet of parchment in silence as Harry entered. He waited a beat, then another, as Bill finished scanning the paper, then turned to Harry with a smile that Harry knew enough to recognise as forced. 

“What can I do for you?” 

“I brought your book back.” Harry walked forward and placed the volume on the edge of the desk, then stepped back. As Bill went to tuck the book back into place on a shelf behind him, Harry took the opportunity to take full stock of the room around him. Two bookcases, one filled with dusty old tomes, one displaying a variety of strange relics. The desk, one office chair, two chairs for students. Two latticed windows on the far wall, peeking out the windows of the tower onto the grounds below. A large folding trunk that had been configured into a stand for a file organiser. On the left wall, a fireplace, lit despite the warmth of the early autumn sunlight filtering in through the windows. Harry paused upon the fire, squinting at it until Bill turned back around and noticed with a quiet, “ah.” 

“What was he doing here?” Harry asked quietly, failing to hide his anger with Bill, who looked entirely unconcerned by this development. 

“Advanced study, same as you. Ministry orders.” 

“So not by choice, then?” Harry confirmed. Bill said nothing, regarding him with inscrutable blue eyes.

“Harry, I know there’s history between you and Draco Malfoy,” Bill said measuredly. “But you’ve known me for a long time, too. And I hope you know better than to think I would keep anything secret that would put you in danger.”

Harry’s anger flared up behind his eyes, tearing through him in a blaze. “I wouldn’t have thought so either,” he said accusingly. Bill looked momentarily sad, then quickly became resolute. 

“I hardly need to remind you that it’s because of your intervention that Lucius’s kid walks free,” Bill said. “So be careful who you go around accusing. I don’t like it either, but I do what Kingsley asks me to do.” 

Harry’s instinct was to ask more questions that would likely go unanswered, but some fire was burning deep in his chest, and it spurred him on in a rage. “If you have nothing to hide from me, then you can tell me what’s going on!” 

“I just did,” Bill replied. His eyes were cutting into Harry, the gears turning behind them. “Please don’t push me on this, Harry. I’m not allowed to explain the private affairs of others to you.” 

“But—“ 

“I’ve told you what I’m able to say. I’m sorry Harry,” he said, sighing with what sounded like genuine remorse, “but you’re putting me in an impossible position. I can’t lose this job, I’ve got a family of my own to take care of now. I know you want to help, but I trust Kingsley, and he doesn’t want you getting involved with issues that are already under control. You have to trust the system a little bit, and not take everything on yourself.” 

“Where have I heard that before?” Harry muttered darkly, too irate to say anything else. Bill offered him a reassuring smile, which only annoyed Harry further. 

“Thank you for this.” Bill slapped a hand down on the cover of the book. “Now I’d suggest you get some rest. You’re teaching tomorrow, and those kids are counting on you.” 

Harry’s mouth flapped uselessly, but even the burning feeling inside of him of betrayal and rage couldn’t spur him to form an answer to a conversation that had been so swiftly and unequivocally put at an end. 

“Goodnight, then,” he muttered, ducking out. Bill raised a hand halfway in farewell. As soon as Harry had left and the door to the adjoining room swung resoundingly closed, Bill dropped his forehead heavily onto the desk and groaned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: death mentions, light gore in the second section. If there is anything else you would like tagged, please let me know in the comments!

Harry had planned to tell Ron all about the previous night’s encounter at breakfast the next morning, but Ron never showed up to the staff room before they were due to teach class, so Harry pulled out a quill and some parchment and penned a letter instead. He addressed it and tied it off to one of the Ministry mail owls as it came soaring in with the morning’s paper, and after helping itself to some of his bacon, it fluttered back off through the window. 

Ron showed up ten minutes before their class was due to start rumpled and unkept, his mouth dropped open in an enormous yawn and one shoe only halfway on. He was clutching his head. No students had arrived yet, so Harry did another sweep of the room before whacking Ron over the side of the head with the morning’s folded-over Prophet. 

“Where the hell were you?” He hissed, as Ron threw down his satchel on the desk and bent to fix his shoe. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he brushed off, waving a hand and getting back to his feet. “I Flooed to Hermione’s last night. Barely slept a wink.” 

“Charming,” Harry said, grimacing. 

Ron’s eyes were wide. “I mean it, the woman’s been mental. All those hours at work are turning her into a bloody animal. Just look at my neck—“

“I don’t want to hear about the sex life of my two best friends, thank you very much,” Harry cut in sharply, throwing up his hands to block the view of the red mark Ron was now demonstrating on his jugular. 

Ron grinned unapologetically. “Hey, mate, just because you aren’t getting any doesn’t mean you can spoil it for the rest of us.” 

“You realise you’re currently making fun of me because I’m not shagging your sister.” 

“No way! I’m thrilled that you’re not shagging my sister. Best thing you ever did for me was split up.”

“Wow,” said Harry, trying to keep from mentally tallying all the other things he had done for Ron in the past. At the top of the list was _saved him from drowning in the Black Lake,_ but he forced himself not to say it, instead managing a vitriolic, “Thanks, Ron.” 

Ron clapped him on the back with what Harry suspected was meant to be a sympathetic look but fell just a little bit too short. As he looked around, he realised with a jolt that some students had begun to trickle in and take their seats, gaping open-mouthed at the pair with eyes like saucers. 

Harry turned his back to the room once again, tugging Ron with him into a huddle with their shoulders together. “Did you read the plan for today?” He hissed softly, feeling Ron’s shoulder lift against his in a shrug. 

“Skimmed it.” 

“Skimmed...” Harry seethed, not sure what he had been expecting. “We’re shafted.” 

“Look, just start with the classic shit, it’ll be fine. I’m Harry Potter, I saved you all from the reign of evil, my incredibly fit friend Ron here needs no introduction...” 

Harry elbowed him sharply, connecting with a yielding portion of gut just beneath Ron’s ribs and eliciting a heavy oof. When he had steeled himself and turned back around, most of the chairs had filled up, and the class period was about to begin. 

The enchanted clock above the doorway struck the hour, and all eyes in the room swivelled to the front to blink owlishly at Harry and Ron. 

Harry’s mind went blank with a palpable chill, suddenly aware that he was going to have to command the attention of all these children. Whatever he said now would be their impression of him for the rest of the year. What could he even say that would live up to the expectations they had already built up about him? He had been fourteen not so long ago. What would have impressed him? At the time he had been preparing to battle a fully grown Hungarian Horntail in single combat, so he figured it wasn’t the best measure of what to expect from this lot. 

“Say. Something.” Ron hissed, leaning over to speak to him through clenched teeth. 

“Er...hi,” Harry managed. “I’m Harry, this is Ron. Possibly you’ve heard of us.”

“Yes, sir,” said a snickering Ravenclaw in the front row. 

“Oh, Merlin, no, none of that ‘sir’ rubbish,” Harry groaned, and was met by a smattering of laughter from the group. “Harry and Ron, okay? We’re not that old, I promise.” 

The Ravenclaw who had spoken up shrunk back into their seat, shoulders hunched to hide their reddening ears. 

Harry felt some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He had done this before already, had he not? Why was this any different? He came to a decision right then and reached onto the desk behind him to snatched up the paper with the lesson plans scrawled across it and held it up. “So, the papers we’ve been given say that we should be reviewing some spell theory today,” he continued, to a resounding chorus of groans from the students. “But you’re right, that’s the worst way to start a year. So queue up, and we’re going to practice some spells instead.” 

The class sat in perfect silence, suspended in disbelief for a moment, before the sound of scraping chairs rent the empty air and students began converging on the centre of the room, elbows flying as they fought to reach the front of the rapidly forming queue. Ron sent Harry an angry look that held no conviction. 

“You knew,” he muttered, as Harry grinned apologetically, “you knew that I had a headache and now you’re going to have them blow the place up with me right here.” 

“You could go grab that practice dummy out of the storage cupboard,” Harry suggested at his usual volume, nodding to the slanted doorway under the office stairs. “If it’s not there, they’ll have to practice on us, which I don’t particularly fancy on day one.” 

Again, the class laughed, and Harry felt his heart swell up. He hadn’t allowed himself to miss this, what with the reek of war that surrounded his past teaching ventures, but he was finding, with a wave of reminiscence, that he had missed it more than he could bear. Every spell they learned was another injury avoided, another life saved. Here, in this room, he would create the antithesis of everything Voldemort had ever held dear. 

Ron returned, pushing the hovering dummy along with his wand. “Alright then,” Harry shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the din of excited chatter. “Let’s start with stunning spells. _Wands up!_ ”

* * *

Draco Malfoy had woken up on the morning of September the second from a nightmare so vivid that he staggered directly to the sink to vomit, his insides roiling as his body struggled to expel the rot. Gasping ragged breaths, shocking his face with cold water from the tap, he reminded himself bitterly that it was impossible to remove something that was all in his head. All those Legilimency lessons and he couldn’t read his own mind. 

It was cloudy and dark outside, the morning light a watery grey through the windows, shuttered by lumpy grey clouds squatting before the sun like something congealed. Between last night’s nightmares and overall lack of sleep, he was in a terrible mood to start his day, and things only continued to sour when he overheard his parents speaking downstairs. As silently as he could, Draco dressed himself and slipped a few important items into his pockets: his wand, a thin leather wallet containing a handful of galleons, an emerald-capped vial of Floo powder — and slipped down the stairs, landing each footfall so as not to make any sound through the empty stone chambers of the ancient house. 

Narcissa was whispering furiously, her voice a faint hiss, from somewhere near the entrance hall of the house. Draco paused on his way to the main chamber and leaned against a shadowed wall to listen. The strained, manic voice of his father drifted to his ears, distinctly more audible than his mother’s. 

“—no friends at the Ministry, you’ll find no sympathy there. We can handle it ourselves.” 

_“How,_ Lucius?” Narcissa returned, incensed. “You have no wand, every spell I cast is being tracked, and we don’t even know who’s doing it—”

“Enough,” Lucius commanded, his voice booming and low, a hair away from unhinged. “We will _sort_ it.” 

Draco slinked past the mouth of the hallway, careful not to be spotted by his parents. As he passed, he caught sight of what they were talking about; the front doors were wide open, and hanging in midair, suspended on a cable from the portico, was the mangled corpse of a white peacock, its feathers dripping coagulated blood the colour of clay onto the flagstone. The bird had clearly been lacerated by magic, though its neck hung at an odd angle. Someone had clearly been angry enough to maim it with their bare hands before leaving it to bleed on the front step. Draco froze when he saw it, a pale blot against the overcast sky beyond. He remembered too late that he was supposed to be sneaking out, and as his mother turned around and caught his eye, dread settled into his stomach. 

“Sort it, then,” Narcissa said, indicating the peacock. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.” She left Lucius in the foyer and swept Draco away down the hall, shadowing him from the eyes of his father. 

“Are you heading out?” She asked in hushed tones, giving him a brisk once-over and smoothing the sleeves of his jacket with small but firm hands. 

“Yes,” Draco said. She looked sad to see him go, but made no move to keep him. 

“Alright, then. Be safe.” Her eyes darted in the direction of the front hall, and Draco could tell she was wondering if he had seen the dead peacock. He plastered on a half-smile as though he had not, endured her kiss on the cheek, and returned to the fireplace in the main antechamber. Narcissa stood and watched him from the doorway, a mixture of sadness and concern warring on her features, as Draco stepped into the swirling green flames and vanished from the house, leaving Narcissa to stare around her at their resounding walls and wonder when this room had gotten so large.

* * *

“And you’re sure it was him?” Ron was saying, his mouth hanging open disbelievingly as he stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth, a piece of chicken sliding unnoticed off the end and splashing back into the broth below. 

Harry nodded. “Bill confirmed it.” 

“Little weasel,” Ron whispered, throwing himself back in his chair. “Both of them, actually. My own brother! I can’t believe I thought he was the cool one.” 

“Don’t remember you ever getting an ear pierced,” Harry countered, shrugging when Ron shot him a sour look. “Look, I’m not worried about Malfoy or anything. He’s a coward and a prick and he’s all alone, plus he owes me for saving his life, so I don’t think he’s a danger. I just...want to be careful.” 

“Yeah, I get it.” Ron sat forward, taking up his spoon again. “We’ve had to keep an eye on our backs our whole life. You don’t lose that in a year.” 

“I already wrote to Robards asking him about it.” 

Ron coughed and swallowed hard to clear his throat. “You did what? Robards has other shit to worry about, I don’t think he’s gonna answer.” 

“I had to try,” Harry said. “Anyway, it’s a letter. If he doesn’t have time, he just won’t reply.” 

Ron nodded, taking another bite of his food and chewing slowly, a thoughtful look glazing his eyes. “What were they talking about anyway?” 

“No idea,” Harry shrugged. “He might tell you more, you should ask him when he gets back.” 

A sudden thought occurred to him, and Harry felt a weight like a boulder pressing into his chest. Fingers shaking, he reached into his rucksack and produced the Marauder’s Map from the outside pocket. Ron’s eyes widened. 

“Oi, what’s this about then?” 

“Bill said he had a meeting today,” Harry explained, activating the map and beginning to flip frantically through the accordion-tabbed panels. “He didn’t say where or why.” 

Ron shook his head. “Nope. No way. If I go stalking my brother about the grounds I’ll hear about it at home for the rest of my life. Mum always sides with Bill. She thinks he invented magic or something. You’re going alone.” 

“Fine,” Harry said, his eyes fixing on the exact point he was looking for. “Then I’ll see you later.” 

“We’re meeting Hermione tonight!” Ron shouted after him. Harry waved acknowledgement from the door, throwing his coat on as he closed it behind him and left Ron sitting alone in the staff room. 

The markers Harry was looking for were down by the lake. Two names scrawled beside one another in razor thin lettering, punctuated by tiny maroon footprints like a spattering of dried blood across the page. He hastened down the steps to the lakeshore, zipping his jacket against the chill wind off the water as he went. Somewhere just beyond his view, on a beach partially hidden by the tree line, Bill was once again meeting with Draco Malfoy. 

_Advanced study, same as you._ What did that mean? Bill was teaching him? Why would the Ministry sanction more education for a former Death Eater? Robards had been furious with Harry for defending Draco and Narcissa Malfoy at court and keeping them out of prison. It was unfathomable to Harry that he would pivot so quickly to encouraging his continued learning. Did the family even have their wands back? Harry had returned Draco’s to the Ministry after the war, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that they were on magical probation. None of it added up, which spurred Harry more quickly down the hill. He hardly realised he hadn’t been checking the Marauder’s Map until he approached the edge of the forest and skidded to an abrupt halt as a red haired figure emerged from the trees. 

“Harry,” Bill greeted, his mouth a grim line. “What a completely expected surprise. Walk with me.” 

The words held the cadence of a command, not a suggestion, so Harry dithered for only a moment before turning back around and grudgingly following Bill back up the rise. 

“I’d guessed you wouldn’t leave me alone after yesterday,” he sighed, resigned, as Harry fell into step beside him. Resignation was, at least, better than anger. Harry had never seen Bill angry and was beginning to realise with dread that he never wanted to. “Saw me on your map, did you?” 

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked, startled. 

Bill scoffed. “I grew up with the twins.” 

“It was my father’s,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure what made him say it, but Bill did not seem startled by the revelation; rather, he simply nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. 

“I suppose I should have guessed that,” he conceded. “Then it seems only right that it should have passed to you. Though I would remind you that it could be kept solely for decorative purposes. Sentimentality, if you will.” 

“I think you’re stalling,” Harry guessed. Bill actually smiled wanly at that, a quiet breath of a laugh escaping his lips. 

“ “You are really making it difficult to keep my promises,” he warned. “But I have a feeling you’re not going to just let it go, whatever anyone tells you.” 

Harry didn’t argue this, just kept walking in stride with Bill, focusing on stretching his steps to match Bill’s longer legs. “I’m stubborn like that,” he agreed. 

Bill released a drawn-out sigh. “Because you’re my assistant, and my absences concern you, I will let you know that I’ve been assigned to teach him.” 

“For the Ministry?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why you? You know what he’s done.” 

Bill laughed harshly at this. “Only partially. But do you think they’d have asked you or Ron to do it?” 

“Fair enough.” Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his anorak to protect his fingertips from the persistent chill. “What are you teaching him?” 

Harry could feel Bill giving him a disbelieving look and refused adamantly to meet it for the sake of not being patronised. “Have a think about that,” Bill urged at last. Harry thought. 

“Defensive spells? You’re the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.” 

“Brighter than you look,” Bill teased, earning a light shove from Harry to the shoulder. “Yes, of course. The Ministry can’t keep that family on probation forever. And society tends to prefer wizards who can defend against dark spells, not cast them. And Hogwarts is, as usual, the safest place to monitor someone.” 

“I know this wasn’t Robards’ idea,” Harry murmured, glaring out at the lake. Again, Bill laughed. 

“All I know is, he’s keeping a close eye on all the Malfoys — as much as he can without closing them all in Azkaban. But you seemed to trust Draco after the war, Harry.” Bill stopped now, turning to face Harry with a knowing stare. “Don’t underestimate how much impact your actions have had on that boy’s life. I doubt he’d be walking free if not for you. So really think before you go responding negatively to his continued freedom, because Robards will take any chance he can get to lock them all away for good.” 

Harry nodded mutely, allowing this to wash over him. 

“Come on.” Bill’s voice was gentle, coaxing. He nudged Harry to follow and resumed walking. “Tell me how class went.” 

By the time they arrived back at the castle, Ron was pacing the courtyard outside the main entry, followed by the bemused gazes of the upperclassmen who were spending their free periods outside. When he saw Harry and Bill, the frown on his face slowly melted away into a look of relief. 

“There you are! We’re meeting Hermione at the Broomsticks tonight, thought you’d forgotten.” 

“Nope,” Harry assured him, plastering on a smile. “Just went to find Bill.” 

“And he succeeded!” Bill supplied unnecessarily. “Now get out of here, you’ve more than done your duty for today. Harry said it was a long first day. Go and have a drink for me.” He saluted them lazily with two fingers to his temple as they parted, Ron and Harry back down the rise, Bill through the enormous oak doors of the castle.

The walk to Hogsmeade village was delightfully bereft of chattering students, Ron’s giddy enthusiasm over the improved state of the new Weasley’s shop in town aside. Lee Jordan was managing the branch, much to the disappointment of his mother in the Ministry, but Ron was insistent that the outlet was a smashing success. 

“They’ve got this new thing, George says, that’s like an enchanted beetle; you can sit it anywhere and it will help you listen in on conversations. Inspired by Rita Skeeter, no doubt, but it’s definitely an improvement on the extendable ears.” 

“Brilliant,” Harry said, the very idea of having to sweep every room for beetles from now on nauseating at best. 

The trek up to the village was strangely unfamiliar without the usual blanket of snow Harry associated with trips to Hogsmeade. The sun was pounding down on the walkways and warming the cobblestones, and the streets were quiet with all the children indoors. Small groups of shoppers milled about the village in awed clusters, some pointing out the new additions to the street and marvelling at the fresh coats of paint and gleaming gold shop signs. 

“It’s changed a lot, hasn’t it?” Ron sighed, catching Harry’s eye with a weak smile. “I don’t know what half of these places are anymore, all the old ones went out...” 

One building in particular stood out among the rest for its facade of mismatched lavender brick and blazing orange crossbeams. Ron followed Harry’s gaze to the sign above the shop, atop which perched a miniature scarlet steam engine that every so often shot fireworks out of its smokestack in a variety of shapes and colours. The fresh orange paint read, against a glaringly purple backdrop, Weaslee’s Wizard Wheezes.

Ron snorted. “Guess they’ve rebranded this one, what with Lee running the place. I can’t decide if it’s clever or bloody stupid.” 

“Why one or the other? Somehow you manage to be both.” Harry glanced at Ron as a thought overwhelmed him — one he had been considering most of the way here. “Hey.” 

“Yeah?” Ron’s voice wavered, like he knew what Harry was going to ask. 

“Are you okay to go in here?” Harry tried to meet Ron’s eyes, but Ron was transfixed on the swaying sign above the doorway. “Ron.” 

Ron shook his head, a look of determination settling into his face. “I want to. He would want me to. He’d tell me to stop fretting and shove me right through the door, and he’d insist I spend all my money on his rubbish.” Ron blinked furiously to dissipate the glaze coming over his eyes. “This is the first time I can afford to spend all my money on this rubbish, Harry, so come on. Let’s make it count.” 

Harry threw a fortifying arm around Ron’s shoulders, giving it a squeeze, and together they forged onward into the shop, following the sound of raucous laughter and the smell of boiled sweets and burning hair.

* * *

Hermione met Harry and Ron at the Three Broomsticks with pencil shavings on her blouse and a smile on her face. With the sun going down outside, the temperature had plummeted from the mountain air, and her cheeks were bright red as she flopped into the chair next to Ron’s, greeting him with a quick kiss that Harry pretended not to see to save Ron some embarrassment. 

When she caught sight of their bags, Hermione rolled her eyes, though the smile never left her face. “All right,” she said, steeling herself. “What did you get?” 

They ordered food and drinks while Ron went through their purchases, including a trick hair gel that turned all the user’s hair acid-green for 24 hours, a veritable mountain of assorted candies, a set of sticky trainers that allowed the wearer to scale walls, and a crystal vial of Ammortentia-inspired perfume, which smelled differently to each passerby depending on what smell they liked best. This last item, Ron quickly slipped back into the bag before Hermione could get a look at it, telling her that it was a Christmas present and she would see it later. 

“Ronald Weasley,” Hermione said, pretending to be cross but laughing, “you did not get me an enchanted joke product for Christmas.” 

“No!” Ron said defensively, convincing Hermione not at all. 

“No, really,” Harry said, trying not to laugh at the way Hermione crossed her arms and pretended to sulk. Ron’s face visibly changed with relief when Harry came to his defence. “He didn’t, I promise. I think you’ll actually like it.” 

They’d tried the bottle in the shop, not entirely convinced it wasn’t a carefully disguised prank, but it had worked as intended. Harry thought it smelled of some kind of earthy soap, like sandalwood, and Ron had smelled vanilla. 

“She could wear it to work,” Ron said, grinning sheepishly. “It’s kind of diplomatic, you know? Everyone will like her before she even opens her mouth.” Harry had absolutely no idea how a perfume could be diplomatic, but he had nodded enthusiastic agreement anyway. 

Their drinks arrived, and the flow of conversation turned to work, and classes, and finally their plans for the next two days. 

“Quidditch game this weekend,” Ron said as he polished off the last of his beer and slammed his mug on the table. Hermione reached up as he was speaking and dabbed away a smear of foam from his lip with the end of her sleeve. “Hermione and I are going to go, if you want. Ginny’s sending us tickets. Canons versus Harpies!” 

“Harry doesn’t have to come,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m sure you have loads of work to do anyway, right Harry?” She sent him a pointed look across the table, suggesting he take the out she was offering him. 

“Er, right,” Harry said lamely. “Plus, I’m overseeing practice here this weekend anyway. It’s the best McGonagall can do for me, since I’m too old to play.” 

Ron snorted. “Reckon any of the kids have that new broomstick they made for you? What’s it called, Light-something...?”

“The _Lightningbolt,_ ” Harry said, grimacing into his mug. “And I’ve already had a couple ask me to sign theirs, so you can save the trouble of mocking me for it, I’ve been embarrassed plenty.” 

“Bloody hell.” Ron chortled. “You do a little thing like save the damn world and Ellerby and Spudmore go ahead and name their new model after you. Suppose Ginny’s got one yet?” 

“No, I’d reckon not,” Harry said thickly. Hermione reached over and laid a hand meaningfully on Ron’s forearm, as if to say, _enough._

“Hey, you break my only sister’s heart, I get to have a few jabs at you,” Ron said, swiping Hermione’s pint and downing the dregs of that as well. “Anyway, we should get going, mum’s already gonna box my ears for showing up late. Now she won’t even have time before dinner to interrogate me and Hermione about wedding plans...” 

The trio shrugged on their jackets and shouldered their way through the heavy door into the bracingly cold night. Hermione shivered at the sudden change in temperature from the warm fire-lit belly of the Hogs Head tavern, and Ron put an arm around her reflexively to stop her shaking. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Molly’s got the spare room set up for us already, you could take Ron’s old bedroom for the weekend...”

“I shouldn’t, I’ve got plenty to do here,” Harry said. “But thanks.” 

Ron clapped him on the back, Hermione kissed him on the cheek, and then with a sharp crack, they disappeared into the evening air. 

Harry began the trudge back up to the castle alone, sinking his hands deep into the pockets of his anorak. It was barely September, but he could already see his breath coming in faint clouds as he trekked up the pathway to the school. It would be really nice right about now, he thought bitterly, to still have access to the Room of Requirement, and the passageways within that connected the castle to Hogsmeade. But aside from the cold, it really was a beautiful night. Not a cloud blemished the sky above, painted with millions of stars that matched the warm, flickering lights in the castle windows in the distance. Harry glanced around him to make sure that no one was nearby before dredging up the Marauder’s Map from the depths of his coat pocket and speaking its activation. The clock tower in the courtyard read half past midnight, but when he unfolded the panels of the map, the worn parchment falling open easily in his hands, a handful of names still winked back at him in thin crimson ink. Frowning, Harry changed his course and headed up the stone steps toward the grand staircase.

* * *

The top of the Astronomy Tower was peaceful this late at night, which was what Draco had been counting on when he snuck his way up to its ramparts, feeling foolish as he ducked into alcoves in the stone hallways and avoided contact with any of the students or staff. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t still be here this late, but after the events of the morning he was reluctant to return home any too soon. The grounds had been busy earlier, which he had discovered the hard way. Now he stood at the balustrade rubbing ruminatively at the sore spot on the bridge of his nose, relishing in the silence. The only sound that carried up here was the low whistling of the wind through the open arches of the tower. It carried the heady smell of pine trees and lake water, stark and blasting and rejuvenating by degrees as it washed over him. Too long he had been confined to his childhood house, breathing in the stale air heavy with dust. Even after all that had happened upon this tower, within these halls, those long years ago, the castle hadn’t lost its familiar quality of home. The people had changed — or perhaps more accurately, he had changed them — but at least the creaking ancient gyroscope seemed not to mind his company, suspended as ever from its enormous chain in the centre of the tower. Just him and the wind and the railings, the sort of profound peace that had been remarkably hard to come by for one so often alone. He closed his eyes to drink in the silence, feeling the hair on his forehead rifled by the wind. 

It was then that he heard the footsteps, unmistakable, shuffling with attempted caution up the iron steps, sending small vibrations through the metal that made tremors in the floor. Draco’s hand closed around the handle of his wand in the breast pocket of his jacket and held his breath to listen. 

Someone was breathing nearby. There were dozens of stairs to scale to reach the Astronomy Tower, and the listener was fighting to slow their breathing in shallow, ragged huffs. Blood would be roaring in their ears from the climb, no doubt softening the loudness of their breaths to their own perception. Draco considered all of this in the calculated way he considered most things, factoring in the available information, filling in the gaps with conjecture, coming to one glaringly obvious conclusion. He had always been good at assessing a situation and twisting it to his benefit, a talent he had too often wasted on the wrong pursuits. 

He turned around slowly, not wanting to startle his company, the heels of his hands digging into the railing, tracing a volute on the underside absently with the tip of a finger. “Don’t you ever get tired,” he addressed the empty room, “of failing to spy on me under that wretched blanket of yours?”

Harry reacted more quickly than Draco had even expected — and he had expected it, raising his hands in a lazy gesture of surrender as the air in front of his warped like a mirage, the shape taking form as the cloak was cast to the ground, and in two lightning strides there was a wand-tip at his throat, pressing insistently against the pulse point under his jaw, and the resolute arm of Harry Potter connected to it, his green eyes wild with a maelstrom of passing thoughts, most prominently anger and curiosity in remarkably equal measures. The moonlight caught on his glasses as he shifted, and the telltale green eyes vanished behind a wash of Draco’s own face, sneering and unconcerned where it was reflected back to him. 

“You going to kill me?” He asked. Harry’s grip adjusted on the handle of his wand. His arm wasn’t visibly shaking, but Draco could feel the faintest tremor in the tip of the wand where it connected with his throat. Despite himself, he couldn’t keep down a dry laugh. “You know something? I almost wish you had it in you.” 

This startled Harry enough that his arm dropped. Draco’s relief was small as the pressure on his neck released, and he reached to massage the injured spot with his eyes still fixed firmly on Harry’s, determined not to show fear. Harry’s wand had lowered and was now aimed somewhere around the center of Draco’s chest. Draco was unarmed, unresisting. Not only that: he had looked death in the eye and asked it to hurry up. Somehow, after everything they’d been through, this unsettled Harry most of all. 

Harry’s voice was a grating whisper, a twinge in his throat betraying his unease. “What the fuck happened to _you?”_

“Oh, there was a war. Hadn’t you noticed?” Draco, despite the imminent danger, rolled his eyes and bared his teeth in a sardonic grin. “Do you care, suddenly? You never write.” 

“Yeah, well, my owl’s dead,” Harry said flatly. “Thanks to your old friends.” 

Draco’s look darkened. Even in the moonlight there seemed a sudden shadow across his face. “No friends of mine,” he said, low and vehement. “Thought you knew that when you got me acquitted.”

Harry, with a last frozen look of resentment, allowed his arm to slacken and his wand to drop from Draco’s throat. Draco took a hesitant half-step away from the railing and straightened up so he was no longer leaning over the precipice. Harry just watched him, unwavering. 

“Figured they’d still have someone keeping an eye on me.” Draco took the opportunity to give Harry a once-over, a smile like a razor slash crossing his face. “I’m deeply insulted that it’s you.” 

“You think I’m spying on you?” Harry asked, his arm slipping further. His wand was now pointed at the center of Draco’s chest. 

Draco raised a light eyebrow. “You’d be doing a shit job. If the Ministry didn’t send you after me, was it McGonagall?” 

“No, it wasn’t McGonagall. Doesn’t she know you’re here?” 

“I’m being monitored within an inch of my life. Of course she knows I’m here.” He gave Harry another quick once-over, decided he wasn’t about to get hexed, and turned his back on him to lean against the railing again. “If no one sent you and I’m not needed anywhere, then shut up or piss off. You’re ruining a perfectly nice night.” 

“What are you even doing up here?” Harry asked, ignoring Draco’s ultimatum and finally lowering his wand. He took a side-step to put some more distance between himself and Draco; he didn’t feel completely sure Draco wouldn’t pitch him over the railing given the chance. 

“You don’t own the castle, Potter,” Draco said, looking just shy of amused, before his tone turned bitter again. “And you don’t get to interrogate me on my movements; I’m a free man.”

Harry finally stepped up to the balustrade, keeping a good two meters away from his company and trying his best to hide the tremor in his fingers. It had been over a year since they had exchanged more than a passing glance with one another. Neither seemed to know what terms they were on now. 

“I should thank you for that, I suppose,” Draco continued, stunning Harry so effectively that he nearly toppled over the railing himself. “Though the more I consider it, the less I think I deserved it.” 

“You didn’t give me up to Voldemort,” Harry reminded. “I owed you one.” 

“You saved my life in the Room of Requirement,” Draco returned. “We were even.” 

Silence descended, a smothering blanket over their heads. Harry felt like he was suffocating the longer he stood there, his skin prickling with the strangeness of it all. Two years ago, the boy beside him had tried to kill him in the second floor bathroom, and now they were speaking as if none of that had ever happened. A lot had changed since they were at school together, but Harry was still unable to look Draco in the face without feeling a twinge of unfettered rage. 

Draco let out a derisive snort as he considered something. “McGonagall worked so hard to ensure we would never cross paths,” he mused, head shaking disbelievingly at his luck. “Probably thought we would kill each other. Or at least throw a few hexes.” 

“ _Are_ you going to hex me?” Harry asked, half as a joke, though some part of him was genuinely concerned. 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to, Potter,” Draco scoffed. “Though I wouldn’t begrudge you the same.” 

“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” Harry agreed. He squinted upward at the swath of stars splashed across the sky like a shower of sparks and felt a trickle of calm seep into his body at the knowledge that Draco couldn’t curse him, though he knew better than to ask why. “But I don’t know that hexing your fingers together is going to fix any of it.” 

“Remarkably mature of you,” said Draco wryly. “Finally learned how to act your age?” 

“You’re not the only one who had to grow up too fast, Malfoy,” Harry countered. Bitterness rose in his throat like bile as the conversation turned to his least favourite topic. “We were all there for the war.” 

“We weren’t all on the right side of it,” Draco said, and Harry felt the anger ebb out of him. Draco noticed this, and rolled his eyes, turning them back to the faintly illuminated horizon. “Oh, don’t start pitying me, I don’t think I could bear it.” 

“I don’t pity you, I promise,” Harry said, injecting every word with a measure of venom. “Just thinking about some of the things you did when we were in school together, I want to push you over this balcony. But you’re right about one thing: we’re too old to keep fighting like we used to.” 

“And here I thought you enjoyed our rivalry.” Draco’s eyes swept the trees below as he wrung his hands absently, thinking. 

“I know you’re trying to be funny,” Harry said, the bitterness colouring his tone however hard he tried to bite it back. “But that’s not where we are right now.”

Silence descended, broken only by the whistling of wind through the spires of the castle. Harry briefly regretted making Draco close off like that; this was quite possibly the first occasion where they had managed to have a civil conversation, and he had so many questions about why Draco was back, and why he was in the astronomy tower so late at night. As it stood, he assumed any such line of questioning would have a similar effect to the silencing charm that seemed to have descended over the tower. 

“It’s delightful seeing you fight your compulsive need to listen to your own voice,” Draco sighed at last, raising an eyebrow at Harry while giving him a look out the corner of his eye. “But I know you have something you want to say, so out with it.” 

“Fine. You said you weren’t able to hex me. Why? I made sure you got your wand back.” 

Draco shook his head disbelievingly, his nose wrinkling up. “You really don’t know? The Ministry’s golden boy? I thought Shacklebolt told you everything. Or does he just let you lick his shoes clean at the end of the day?” 

“Awfully smart for a man who just admitted he can’t do magic.” 

Draco huffed. “I can _do_ magic.” He glanced at Harry then, fully, searching his face for something with calculating eyes. Harry did his best to hold the gaze, but looking Malfoy in the eye for this long without feeling like he was about to be murdered was making his skin crawl. 

“You really don’t know,” Draco said at last, turning back to the horizon. “I suppose you would’ve lorded it over me if you had.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Harry said, without knowing what he was talking about. “I’m not you.” 

Draco snorted a dry laugh at this. “Guess I deserved that.” He grimaced. “Do you _know_ what happens when the Ministry forces a Trace on you when you’re overage?” 

Harry shook his head, feeling a strange twinge of nausea in his gut. 

Draco tugged down the cuff of a sleeve jerkily and resettled his arms against the bannister, grimacing. Harry caught a brief flash of marbled scar tissue on his forearm as he did. “Maybe you can ask your friend Bill. He seems to tell you everything about me anyway.” 

Harry raked a hand through his thick hair, biting back an annoyed sigh. “I’m remembering why I never actually talked to you.”

“It’s because you always had shit taste in friends, I thought,” Draco said. Harry bristled and shifted to throw him a murderous glare.

“Oh yeah, sure. Hermione’s fine, by the way. Don’t know if you’ve seen her since your aunt tortured her, or your friend tried to kill her.” 

“Yeah, well,” Draco muttered. “They’re both dead now, so don’t lose sleep over it.” 

“I lose sleep over all of them,” Harry snapped back, then instantly closed his mouth. The words had been more honest than he’d meant to say. 

“Yeah,” Draco echoed distantly. He was still staring at the forest below, his eyes unfocused and glassy. Even to his own ears his voice sounded far away, as if he were listening down a tunnel. “Yeah, I get that.” 

Harry looked at him for a long time then, like he was trying to puzzle out an arithmancy problem. Draco could feel the piercing green eyes on him, making every hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but he refused to return the look, worried what Harry would see in him if he did. 

“See something you like?” Draco asked insolently, raising an eyebrow.

“Just wondering what happened to your face.” 

Draco winced, reaching to delicately pinch the bridge of his nose once more, where a dark bruise was just beginning to form under the surface of the skin. “Your pal Longbottom,” he said, grimacing. 

“No,” Harry breathed in quiet awe, hardly daring to believe it. 

Draco’s frown only deepened. “Scared the living shit out of him when he saw me sneaking back across the grounds. Out by the greenhouses? He probably thought it was Peeves playing a prank. Idiot just fucking swung at me in a panic.” 

“Good on him,” Harry said, smiling so widely that his cheeks began to hurt. 

“Fuck off. There’s no spell for bruises,” Draco seethed, glowering. 

“I _know._ Is it broken?” Harry asked hopefully. 

“No. Do me a favour though, next time you see him. Tell him he’s a knobhead.” 

Harry wanted to retort, but he was having trouble forming words around the enormous smile spreading the span of his face. “I’ll bring him flowers,” he mused in barely restrained delight. 

“You saved my life,” Draco murmured. “And you kept me out of jail. Even though you hate me. I don’t understand it.” 

“Don’t you?” Harry asked. A flicker of bitterness had begun to push the elated feeling right out of his chest, filling in the gap with a leaden weight. “Well, I don’t like you, that’s for sure. You had chances to do the wrong thing, and you didn’t. But you never did the right thing either. You did the least amount of work it was possible to do just so you could stay alive. Should I not resent you for that?” 

Harry’s voice had risen very quickly in agitation, and Draco dared a glance at him to see that he was genuinely angry now, his face pinched in the centre as his brows lowered behind his glasses.

“Complaining about a war that the rest of us all had to fight in as well, only you were too much a coward to stand for the side you knew was right.” 

“And would you have wanted me?” Draco returned, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face Harry. “Even if I had decided to help you, and let my family die for that, can you honestly tell me after everything that you would have wanted my help? Or that I would have had a single friend on your side?”

“Am I supposed to be sympathetic to you because he might have killed your parents? He did kill mine, did you forget?” 

“That’s _exactly_ why you should be sympathetic!” Draco roared. Their argument had reached a fever pitch, and their ears rang in the silence as Draco’s words hung between them. He looked equal parts angry and upset, unsure whether to yell or cry as each emotion fought for control over his features. “Even _then_ you were never alone. You had friends who supported you. When your parents have bought every connection you’ve ever had, no one comes to help you when you’re out of favour. My father had to learn that the hard way.” He was speaking quieter now, his voice lowering dangerously between ragged breaths as he fought to calm himself down. “Do you really think I had a choice?” 

Harry stood silent for a long time, his eyes fixated on Draco’s face. Everything hung suspended in that moment, like time had stopped everywhere except for that single tower, until a faint breeze began to gust between them, the only evidence that life outside went on. 

“You always did make friends with the wrong sort,” Harry said at last. “I could help you, if you wanted.” He took a step toward Draco, who tensed and flinched away like a wounded animal. Harry halted, hardly daring to breathe.

Draco’s gaze darkened. “I already told you,” he said, voice low, “I don’t want your fucking pity.” 

Harry remained in the same spot as the initial hurt and then anger flickered across his features like the reflection of a candle flame, and Draco turned and headed for the stairwell. He watched until he saw the last flash of a pale hand lift from the bannister and vanish into the next room, swallowed entirely by the darkness. Harry did not check the Marauder’s Map again as he paced the tower, stubbing his toes in angry kicks against the stone supports until he was sure Draco was long gone and he could return to his room undisturbed.


End file.
